


The Spirit Works

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley Saves The Day, Ghosts, Kissing, M/M, Monster of the Week, Oral Sex, Romance, Spirits, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: A-Plot: Dean and Sam head up to Sheridan, Nebraska, where a spirit has been hopping around and killing people all over town. To do so, they consult a local mystic.B-Plot: Crowley wants Bobby. Crowley wants Bobby a la the traditional erotic comedy. Crowley is going to have Bobby. And Bobby's going to love it.





	The Spirit Works

The silence of the house rings in Dana Maxwell’s ears, and she smiles to herself, softly, as she watches the last of the red candles burn out. She had turned off even her washing machine, and the house is lit only by candles: she’d not so much as wished for the electric hum of appliances on standby, and so she had turned everything completely off.

A Dumb Supper needn’t be held under such a blanket, and she knows it’s not necessary to continue it all night, either, but she likes to be traditional about these things. Dawn will be breaking within the hour, and she’s tired, but it was worth it. “The feast is over,” she says, her voice seeming obscenely loud as it cuts through the quiet. “Thank you for coming – please go on your way.”

There is resistance, and Dana frowns, turning to examine the doorway; in her mind’s eye, she sees it, tall and with the spindliest limbs, twisted. “Please,” she repeats. “Be on your way.” It moves, opening its mouth and revealing a wide, gaping hole – the threat is obvious, and Dana can feel hot, heavy power radiating from the thing in waves, but Dana remains calm, and shows no fear.

From the kitchen counter, she picks up the canister of spiced salt she keeps for precisely this occasion, and with a soft _screech_ , the spirit departs.

Dana hums, taking the soul cakes about her table, and the no-longer steaming cups of tea, and disposes of them outside, in the large compost heap at the end of her garden. The ashes of her incense are also placed within, and she closes the chest, leaning against the compost container and looking out over her garden.

A soft breeze is on the air, shuffling the herbs and flowers around her, in their neat beds, and she walks through them, to the white picket gate at the end of the path from her house; reaching over, she gently removes the hand-painted “Please, take some!” sign, and takes in the now-empty bowl of candy she’d left out.

Up the street, coming through the air like a whipcrack, Dana hears a scream. Immediately, it’s followed by the smash of glass, and she hears high laughter follow after it.

Dana rolls her eyes – kids are so strange on Halloween – and she makes her way inside.

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“What’s the story with it?” Dean asks, and Sam hums, hunching over his laptop and letting his gaze flit over the screen. Dean’s shoulders ache: the damned poltergeist had thrown him hard over a counter in the closed-down diner, and his muscles are still twinging with the effort it had taken to try to reclaim his balance.

“So, it started two weeks ago, on the morning after Halloween – parents come in, see their teenage son, Brady, spread out on his bed with more of his blood outside of him than inside. Throat and wrists all slit – too deep for him to have done it himself. On his sill, with the window wide open, there’s an apple with a name carved into it, and two candles that’ve been snapped in two. The name was Cindy – the name of his girlfriend, who died in a car accident about three months back.” Sam tabs through the documents saved, looking for other stuff to say, and in the meantime, Dean runs over it in his mind.

Dean whistles, drumming his fingers on the wheel as he takes the intersection. “And that happened in a nice little town in North Nebraska, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding. “And that’s not it, Dean – since that first thing, on Halloween, there’ve been five more deaths in the same county. Three kids died in Rushville, around a Ouija board – they’d been using a quarter as a planchette, right? It was embedded in one of the kids’ _eyes_.”

“Jesus.”

“And the last two—” Sam rolls his eyes, and says, “They were a couple slathered up in oil, going at it tantrically. There were Tarot cards spread around a circle they were in, a broken salt circle, and… They had a bowl of herbs that was burning. From what the fire department could tell, there was some kind of big boom from it, and this huge house fire went up around them. The bodies were kind of burned together. _Melted_ together.” Dean can’t help but wince. Taking the turning for Route 20, he frowns, shaking his head.

“So what the Hell are we dealing with here? Doesn’t sound like a haunting, or like there was a cursed object between ‘em. Ain’t there a ghost town out in Sheridan?”

“Yeah, Antioch, but nothing like this has ever happened there. It was just a town around an old potash plant, you know?” Sam’s got that little furrow he gets in his eyebrows when he’s thinking hard about something – it used to be so cute when he was a kid – and he keeps looking through all the stuff he has saved. “It’s just so weird, you know? Like, I can’t find a connection between any of these people except this vague connection with occult stuff. And come on, tantric sex? It’s not like they were summoning demons.”

“No history of activity like this?”

“No, man – I went back like 200 years, and it’s just the normal urban legends and myths, you know? Nothing like this.”

“You think it’s some kinda trickster? Irony and all that?” Sam shrugs his shoulders.

“Maybe,” Sam says.

They keep driving. In the back of his mind, Dean thinks to himself that after the hunt is through, they might go and see Bobby.

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“Mrs Winters?” Sam asks. The woman on the doorstep is dressed in a pink, fluffy dressing gown wrapped so tightly around her that anyone would think it was snowing outside, and her eyes are red from crying, with dark shadows underneath them. Sam thinks about the picture of the crime scene, of the apple turned on its side with the name _CINDY_ browned into the white flesh of the apple, clumsily carved into the flesh of the fruit with a knife.

“Y-yes?”

“We’re state police, Ma’am – this is Detective Robert Lamm, and I’m Joseph Bouchard,” Sam says softly. Dean stands behind him, and to his credit, he actually looks kind of solemn. “We’re so sorry to bother you, but we need to ask you some questions about your son – this will add to our investigation.”

“State police?” she repeats, uncertainly, and she looks between Dean and Sam.

“We had a similar case over the county line, in Cherry,” Dean murmurs. “Talking to you could help us catch this guy.” Sam presses his lips together – it’s unfair, to lead her on like that, he knows, but… What else can they say?

Shania Winters nods her head, steps back, and lets the both of them into the house. She leads them into the kitchen, and when she asks if they want any coffee, both Sam and Dean nod their heads. She looks glad to have something to do, and she busies herself unnecessarily with the coffee machine, adjusting the settings and adding more water than it needs.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Winters,” Sam says quietly as he takes a steaming mug from her. “Would you be able to tell us a little about your son?” Shania sits down at one of the stools at the kitchen island, holding her mug carefully in her hands.

“He was always a good boy. Kinda— Brady was always quiet, you know? He never really liked videogames, or playing sorts, even. He was always a bookworm, you know? I remember when he was just a kid, and he went through the whole dinosaur section in the Rushville library – read every single book! And then he’d go onto something else, and something else… He just loves to read so much, and he’ll read everything available on a subject before he moves on. Kind of obsessive, you know? But not in a bad way at all.” Sam nods his head, slowly (he doesn’t miss the way the poor woman changes tense, but it would hardly be good of him to point it out).

She anxiously taps on the side of her mug, and says, “And— And recently, in the past few months, he’s been really interested in magic, you know? He was studying the Salem witch trials at school, so he started reading all about divination, runes, uh, scrying, bibliomancy…” She must see the surprise on Sam’s face, because powerlessly, she shrugs her shoulders. “I gotta admit, I didn’t know anything about that stuff, you know? Magic’s not real – it never occurred to me that there could be so many kinds. Did you know Isaac Newton was an alchemist?” She takes a long drink from her mug.

“He was always so much smarter than me and Buck, you know? He’d sit at the table at dinner every night and tell us everything he’d read that day… Ever since he was a kid…” she trails off, staring into the middle distance. “And Cindy, Cindy was a great girl. She had family on the Winnebago Reservation, out in Emerson, and so in the summers she’d bring Brady back for camps and to visit her cousins. They’d sit up at night, telling each other folk stories, and they’d read to each other… I know they were only young, but I really do think they were soul mates – you’d never see two kids speak to each other the way they did. They’d read books to each other ‘til it was mid-morning, and they were so _responsible_ …”

“Cindy was Brady’s girlfriend, right?” Dean asks. Shania nods her head.

“I’m sorry – I’m babbling, I know I am. Cindy died in a car crash – her uncle, Jeff, was teaching her to drive, and some drunk hick in a truck drove right into them. Both of them were dead at the scene. Brady, he didn’t know what to do with himself – he started trying this magic stuff. And it’s not real, so I didn’t worry about it. The stuff he put at his window, it was this thing called a Dead Supper. He told me and Buck all about it.”

“A Dead Supper?” Dean repeats. Sam glances at him, and when Dean meets his gaze, he doesn’t show any kind of recognition.

“Yeah, so, it’s an old tradition that witches used to do at Halloween. See, they set out a place at the table, or just a place to eat, and they put out candles. The idea is that they’d- they’d invite spirits in to take some sustenance. He drove all the way out to Emerson to pick apples from her favourite tree on the Reservation. And— And it must have made him a target.” Shania lets out a sudden sob, and Sam hesitates before he takes a step forward – she presses her face into his chest, and although she doesn’t clutch at him, Sam gently pats her back.

He mouths the words, “Dead supper?” at Dean, just to check, but his brother shakes his head.

Shania sniffles, leaning back, and she shakes her head. “Buck, he’s at the graveyard, now. He wanted to plant some real flowers at Brady’s grave, you know? I’m sorry, I know this isn’t… This isn’t helpful…”

She takes in a slow breath, and says, “So, it was me that found him. He’s usually up at 6am every morning – he never slept much – and he hadn’t come down for breakfast at eight, so I went up to see if he was okay…” Shania sighs softly, shaking her head very slowly, and says, “He was on his back. His eyes were wide open, and there was… There was so much blood, all over the sheets, the walls. They took nearly the whole bed as evidence, but I’ve not been able to go in yet. I think I’ll have to hire some of those, um, those crime scene cleaners.”

A tear rolls down her cheek, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“I just think of him carrying that apple up to his room— you know he polished it at the table! So that it shone in the candlelight.”

“Polished it?” Dean repeats, looking at Shania quizzically. “Didn’t he carve her name on the apple?”

“Oh, he must’ve done that later, when he was alone,” Shania says, shaking her head. “He mentioned it was something people did sometimes, but I didn’t realize he was going to do it for her. And for some murderer to climb in his window…”

“Thank you, Mrs Winters,” Sam says quietly. “We’d like to take a look at Brady’s room now.”

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The room reminds Sam of Bobby’s library. It’s kept way neater, and there aren’t any bottles of beer or anything like that, but there are hundreds and hundreds of books, stacked all the way up to the ceiling, and the only other thing in the room given any space is Brady’s bed and the desk for his computer. Settled on his desk, beside his computer monitor, is a framed photo of a Native girl with green dyed into her hair, holding tightly to the young, black boy Sam recognizes as Brady Winters – the two of them are gently petting a young bison.

“What do you think?” Dean asks. “Brady tries to make a demon deal, something goes wrong?”

“It doesn’t really seem like a demon’s MO, does it?” Sam replies, slowly opening up Brady’s window. There’s no sign of any claw marks or such on the sill, just a little bit of thick, red candle wax that must have dripped onto the white wood. “They take souls, not blood, and jeeze…”

Sam shakes his head, turning to Dean as he hears the familiar whistle and crackle of the EMF reader. “No sulfur. And I think she’d have mentioned if there were any flickering lights or stuff like that.” Dean is shaking his head as he looks at the EMF, and he slides it into his pocket.

“Nothing. There’s a little twinge, but that’s it – no real sign of a haunting.” Sam picks up one of the books at random – _Moby Dick_ – and finds that every page is full of annotations and notes, with post-its on every page. Kid was a damn genius.

“Dean, did it say anything in the crime scene notes about a knife?”

“A knife? Nah – that’s part of why they thought it was a murder – nothing to hand he could’ve used. He even has an old-fashioned antique letter-opener, silver, that he got for his birthday, but it was downstairs in the fruit bowl.” Sam taps his fingernails on the back of his phone, holding it thoughtfully in his hands.

“So how’d he carve the letters on the apple?” Dean glances up, looks around the room, and then frowns.

“Sonuvabitch,” he says, succinctly.

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“Yeah, Bobby, a Dead Supper,” Sam says, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pages through some loose papers he’d printed out. It’s more case stuff, extrapolating from any other recent deaths, but from what Sam can tell, Cindy and her uncle don’t fit the pattern, and nor do any other recent deaths inside the county.

“Uh, well, it’s a Saint’s Day tradition. A Dead Supper, you drape your table and your chairs in black, and you light a candle. The idea is, you put food out for spirits, and you invite them into your home.”

“Why the Hell would anyone do that?” Bobby chuckles on the other end of the line.

“It’s a respect thing, I guess. Mystics do it – I went to one Pam did, this one time, but that was a Dumb Supper.”

“What’s that? What’s the difference between a Dumb Supper and a Dead Supper?”

“Dumb Suppers are silent, Sam – you ain’t supposed to talk or disturb the spirits. It’s more respect, and it’s better for the shy ones. These ain’t necessarily dead people we’re talking about: Halloween’s a day for all kinds of bogeymen. Ghosts and poltergeists, demons, but then nature spirits, elemental types… Not harmless, exactly, but not really on this plane unless you invite ‘em in.” Sam frowns, scanning over another page.

“I don’t get it, Bobby – it’s not like we have any witnesses we can talk to. This stuff, it’s weird as Hell, and the only thing that connects them all seems to be a vague link to the occult. Dean’s looking at the crime scene of the couple right now.”

“Yeah, thanks for sending me the crime scene photos of that one, kid. Really nice to think about.” Sam can’t help but give a quiet, dry chuckle. “Could be a trickster, maybe. One that doesn’t approve of occult stuff?”

“I dunno if it has enough irony for that,” Sam says, taking the phone in his hand and rubbing the other one over the side of his jaw. “Is there a case of anything like this you know of?” Sam hears a voice on the other end of the line, and then laughter, and then the sound of Bobby saying, “ _Shuddup_.” “Bobby? Who’s there with you?”

“No one, Sam,” Bobby says, sounding vaguely irritated. “Look, I’ll have a look through my books, and I’ll get back to ya.” He hangs up, and Sam looks at his phone, frowning deeply. He sighs, standing up and putting his stuff under his arm, but before leaving the library, he stops.

He’s used to public libraries having notice boards full of local advertisements, lost dog posters, reading challenges, but one of the notice boards has been completely cleared: in the middle of it is a glossy photograph of Brady Winters, surrounded by a huge stack of books, and a caption saying **SHERIDAN COUNTY’S READER OF THE YEAR**.

Underneath is a small type-written obituary, saying how keenly the Rushville Public Library regrets the death of one of its best patrons, Brady Winters. Around the board are little messages pinned up – some of them are in the shaky, cursive hands of the elderly, and others are in youthful, printed letters Sam recognizes as those of high schoolers.

“It’s such a shame, isn’t it?” Sam turns, clasping his papers to his chest. The woman is tall, about Dean’s height, with lilac-dyed hair and tattoos on her arms, and she wears a long, old-fashioned dress with a flowing green skirt. “Brady was such a good kid – we were so upset when we heard about his death. Me especially, he and I were pretty close.” Sam glances at her nameplate, which reads _Dana_ in a neat, black script. “Did you know him?”

“No, no, I was just thinking how tragic it was,” Sam says. Thinking on his feet, he says hurriedly, “You know Cindy Decorah, his ex-girlfriend? I was friends with her uncle. Jeff.” Sympathy breaks over Dana’s face, and she puts her hand over her chest; on the back of her hand is a symbol Sam recognizes.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I met Jeff once or twice, and Cindy, God. Her death was just as untimely as poor Brady’s: it’s not right, kids dying that young.”

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head, slowly. “I’m— I’m so sorry for asking, but what’s that symbol? On the back of your hand?” Dana gives a gentle smile, and puts her hands behind her back.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just think some symbols are cool, you know? I have a degree in Celtic mythology.” Sam presses his lips together, pushing them out slightly.

“If you studied Celtic myths, how come that sigil’s Enochian?” He’s been researching Enochian symbols ever since Cas came down – and he knows Enochian when he sees it. Dana doesn’t smile. She looks at Sam, slightly coldly, and then shrugs her shoulders.

“I thought you were one of the regular hicks out here that figured it was a demonic symbol,” she admits. “It was nice talking to you.” She walks away, ostensibly to help an elderly patron with one of the referencing systems, and Sam looks at her for a little while before he leaves.

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“You can’t fuckin’ make jokes when I’m on the phone,” Bobby says, and Crowley laughs, dropping lazily into one of Bobby’s arm chairs, his leg hanging down from one of the chair’s arms. “I’m serious! You shouldn’t even be here, for Chrissakes—”

“I don’t think Christ cares where I go.”

“I don’t fucking like you, I can tell you that, and—”

“But I like you, sweetling.”

“And another thing, right, if you ain’t even gonna _help_ me, and you’re just gonna make jokes about the hottest couple around – which even for a little creep like you—”

“Who’s little? I’m not little.”

“—is pretty damn low.” Crowley looks up at Bobby, blinking his eyes, fluttering his lashes, with his hands neatly folded over his belly.

“Are you finished, princess?”

“Don’t call me that,” Bobby snaps, and he grabs for a can of salt, but Crowley will just dodge it – he knows Crowley will just dodge it. Because that’s what he’s been doing for weeks now, dropping into Bobby’s house and making himself at home, dodging the holy water and the oil and the salt, and the worst part is that the devil’s traps don’t even deter him – because that just means Crowley sticks around for _longer_. He’ll just sprawl on the ground in the middle of one of the damn pentagrams and say, “Don’t suppose you could make me a cup of tea, Robert?”

“Don’t you want any help?” Crowley asks mildly, and Bobby feels his gaze on the back of his neck as he bends over a table to reach for a book; he feels Crowley’s gaze other places too, the damn demon.

“You can make me a cup’a coffee. Can you handle that, _your majesty_?”

“Oh, I certainly can,” Crowley says, and then his hand comes down, _hard_ , on Bobby’s ass. Bobby whirls around, grabs Crowley around the throat, but that just makes the demon grin like a fucking mad man. “Is this the wrong time to call you darling?”

“You touch me on more time—”

“I think it’s _you_ touching _me_ ,” Crowley points out, his tone positively lascivious. Bobby curls his lip. “Look. I don’t know how many times I’ve got to tell you this, Robert. I’m here to romance you.”

“I don’t wanna be romanced,” Bobby says. “Especially not by a tiny, _male_ , demon.”

“Gender schmender,” Crowley murmurs. “I can be whatever you want, darling. Don’t pretend you don’t want it.” Bobby scowls at Crowley, scowls at his smug, English face and his stupid little suit, and he thinks about Crowley kissing him on the mouth – and taking a damned picture as proof.

“Coffee. Or get out.” Bobby releases Crowley’s throat, and he sits at his desk, setting his jaw as he pulls a book in front of him and begins to read. When Crowley sets the mug of steaming coffee beside him, he flickers from site, and Bobby sighs his relief, taking the mug and drinking from it.

It occurs to him, irritatingly, that he no longer feels the need to check the drinks Crowley makes him for poison, and he gives a growl to himself.

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Dean frowns, staring down at the crime scene photos in his hands and looking them up, running a torch around the apartment. Again, there’s no smell of sulfur, and he can’t pick up a damned thing on the EMF.

There’s a sort of melted, bloody thickness in the middle of the floor, stained into the carpet – and Dean doesn’t think that shit is _ever_ coming out. He kinda wants to poke it, just to see if it feels as much like skinwalker goo as it looks, but he doesn’t really want to test the theory. The apartment is full of all kinds of new age shit – sage and rosemary, tarot decks with suns and rainbows and angels on ‘em (they, funny enough, don’t look much like Cas), big posters of dreamcatchers and shit… But none of it’s really _occult_. Not properly, anyway.

Dean glances through their books, and he doesn’t see any familiar titles, but one of them has a thick feather sticking out of it as a bookmark.

He picks it up, and looks at the cover. It has a picture of two hot chicks getting it on – this is Dean’s kinda witchcraft.

**SEX SPELLS FOR NEW LOVERS**

Dean grins to himself, and he begins to page through, past the title page with its **EX-LIBRARY** stamp.

The marked page is a spell for astral pleasure, and Dean scans through the page. Sex in a circle, with herbs in a bowl… Dean checks the list from the crime scene – rose petals, red wine, a garnet, mint and lavender oil… Check, check and check.

Nothing about being melted to death while in the act, but hey, even witchcraft needs a little creative flair now and then, don’t it?

_Remember! When astral projecting, you are at risk from spirits that might want to cause you harm, so keep some salt to hand, ask any spiritual guardians you might call on to watch over you, and keep your aura strong._

“Huh,” Dean murmurs, and he takes out his phone to give Sammy a call.

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“So, yeah,” Dean says, leaning back on the diner bench. “Nothing at the old church, though, where the kids were playing Ouija – ‘til it went more like Nonnein.” Sam makes a face at him, and Dean laughs at his own joke, and adds, “But yeah, theoretically holy ground, but the same old same old – no EMF, no sulfur, no nothing.”

“Well, I think I found something,” Sam says. “I met a woman in the library – she said she knew Brady pretty well. This was on her hand.”

“That’s Enochian, right?” Dean asks, looking at the symbol Sam had drawn out. “What’s it say?”

“It’s kinda like – “making”. Or will make – the act of creation.” Dean tilts his head, “And she had other stuff on her arms, too – she brushed it off as being Celtic mythology, but when I challenged her on it, she admitted she knew it was Enochian.” Dean nods his head, slowly. That’s interesting, definitely – he wonders if he should call Cas up. Then again, the guy’ll probably only whine.

“You think this chick is involved?”

“Well, look, I don’t know about that couple, but I had a look at the Rushville Public Library – every high school in the area enrols all their kids there. This Dana girl has been a librarian here for fifteen years.” Huh. Fifteen years…

“How old is she? She hot?”

“Dean,” Sam says, tiredly, and Dean laughs. She’s definitely hot. “Look, I think she might be a witch.”

Dean presses his lips together, thoughtful.

“You got an address?”

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“I would _love_ a cup of tea,” Crowley says, and Dana smiles at him. She takes the kettle off the stove, pouring a little of the steaming water into a teapot. Proper, steeped tea – oh, how the world of mystics is a _civilized_ one. One could hardly expect such careful attention to detail this side of the pond, and particularly not from a lady under the age of seventy. “Thank you, darling.”

Crowley takes in the aroma of it, and then he sips at it, letting out a soft and blissful sigh.

“How’s the work going?”

“It’s fine,” Dana says, but she shakes her head slowly, sitting down on the chair across from Crowley. “You know, these two kids just died here in town.” Crowley frowns, displaying a little faux concern: he always enjoys the little chats he and Dana has, when he chooses to _drop in_. He knows young men and women like this across the country – none of them use magic like Crowley had in his time on Earth, and none of them know what Crowley is, but in the event any of them want to _try_ , in the event any of them want just a taste of what _real_ power is…

Crowley’s right here.

He’s ready to help.

“How old were they?”

“Oh, God, one of them was sixteen, the other was seventeen just a few months back. She was in a car accident, and just a few weeks later, her boyfriend followed after…” Dana puts her mouth against her hands, shaking her head. “They say the poor kid was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Crowley asks. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Dana says. “Apparently he had some candles on his windowsill for Halloween, and the papers think it made him a target.” She sighs softly, looking into the middle distance. “He’d been reading all about magic, recently – I was going to take him under my wing, you know? He came out to the house once or twice…”

“Any leads on the murder?” Crowley asks, feeling the frown deepen. He doesn’t care for mortal concerns, not really, but the more his little coven of mystics looks up to Uncle Crowley…

“They’ve got no idea. And I know teenagers get up to some shit, but that’s not what it is, Crowley, I’m certain of it.” Dana is silent for a few moments, and then she says, with a smile, trying her best to lighten the mood, Crowley expects, “What sort of things did you want in your bouquet?”

“Ah!” Crowley, leans back in his seat, setting his mug on his knee. “Well, the recipient is a mystic himself. I’d like to include some protective herbs, I think…  Some roses, certainly, perhaps some acacia flowers… I don’t suppose you could set some devil’s bit into the bouquet? In the centre?” Because the _irony_ would simply be too good to be true.

“Sure,” Dana says. “So you want it to be protective, but you want a little affection in there too? Platonic or romantic?”

“ _Erotic_ ,” Crowley says immediately, and Dana laughs.

“I can do that.” Dana watches him for a few seconds, looking Crowley up and down. Crowley, from the beginning, has always been aware that his little friends think he’s gay – gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, some might say – but Dana has always been the one least likely to quiz him on the subject. Perhaps it’s because she’s a raging lesbian. But then, maybe it’s Maybelline. “You’ve never asked for help with a guy before.”

“I’m not asking for help, my darling. I’m asking for a floral arrangement.” There’s a ring at the front door, and Crowley turns to glance at it; Dana is already moving. Her living room, which is a wide, open space with furniture arranged around the edges, has the front door open right into it, but the Americans never did understand privacy.

“Uh, hi, can I help— You’re the guy from the library,” Dana says, abruptly sounding concerned, and Crowley gets to his feet.

“Ms Maxwell? We’re actually looking into Brady’s death.”

“Oh, you absolute _bollocks_.” Crowley comes around, pushing the door open wider to look at the two absolute _lummoxes_ on Dana’s doorstep, and immediately Sam and Dean pull firearms on him – honestly. What are they _like_? “Oughtn’t you put those away, boys?”

“Crowley, who the Hell are these guys?”

“Let me guess,” Crowley says, stepping neatly in front of Dana and pushing her slightly behind him. “You thought, oh, this young lady has to be a witch, let’s go and kill her because some young lad went awry.”

“Not just one kid, Crowley,” the smaller one says angrily. “Three kids got ganked in an incident with a Ouija board, and a couple were melted to fuck during tantric spirit sex.”

“What in the name of whomever you like is tantric spirit sex?” Crowley asks, tiredly. Winchester sputters, and Crowley pinches his nose, thinking this through. He’d love to disappear on the both of them, but he turns back to Dana, who looks alarmed to say the least. “These two are friends of a friend. They’re hunters. Put the guns away, boys: it’s indecent to point at an unarmed lady.”

“Especially when she’s gay,” Dana adds, and Crowley sees the disappointment run across Winchester’s face like a dark cloud over a sunny day. The taller one rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re friends—”

“Of friends,” Crowley amends.

“I suppose you can come in. No firearms in the house, though.” After sharing a glance, the Gruesome Twosome put their guns away, and Crowley wonders how humanity could possibly breed a pair so stupid.

Ten minutes later, the Winchester brothers are sat on Dana’s lovely, floral sofa, with the Sasquatch’s ridiculous legs level with his chest, and Dana peering at both of them with a mild curiosity.

“So what did Crowley say you were? Hunters?”

“Hunters like these, my love, hunt spirits, monsters, the like. Not the sort you deal with – the sort that go bump in the night, as it were. Vampires, werewolves, poltergeists, et cetera.” Dana nods her head seriously, studiously. She’s coming up to forty years old, now, but she still has that lovely, studious look about her – she ought be a professor, really, but goodness knows she doesn’t deserve the difficulty of a class of students.

“What?” Dean asks. “Like _demons?_ ”

“If you’re going to be rude,” Crowley says mildly, “I’m going to leave.”

“Good!” Sam says. “Leave!” Crowley gives a dramatic sigh, and Dana glances at him, amused. Why it is that she seems to find this situation so _delighting_ , Crowley doesn’t know, but she’s an odd one.

Lesbians always are.

“You want to pick your own bouquet?” Crowley glances at her, and he puts his hand over his heart. If he could be, he would be genuinely touched.

“You would trust _me_?” he asks, sweetly. She passes him a pair of gloves and a set of clippers, and Crowley, pleased as punch, lets himself out into the garden.

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“You know what he is, right?” Sam demands, but Dana doesn’t seem to be at all deterred. She looks between the two of them like this is all some kind of joke to her – and despite himself, Sam _is_ reminded of Pam. Less flirtatious, and way less handsy, but they actually seem to have a lot in common – mystics, Sam supposes, just kind of don’t care.

“What are your names?” Dana asks.

“Uh, I’m Dean, Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam.” Dana smiles at them.

“My name is Dana Maxwell, but you already know that, huh? Bet you know my social security number, too.” Dean gives an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and Sam offers her an apologetic shrug. It’s not like they know it by heart. “If you two are hunters, like Crowley says,” Dana says, and she speaks very seriously, quietly. She doesn’t have a Nebraskan accent – she sounds like she’s from further East, maybe from the coast or a little bit inland. Sam wonders why she moved up here. “What is it you think happened to Brady?”

“Well,” Sam says, and he looks at Dean.

“You ever hear of something called a Dead Supper?” Dana frowns, blinking her grey eyes.

“A Dead Supper? Yes, of course – it was just All Hallow’s Eve. I held a Dumb Supper here at the house.”

“Well, we think Brady held one too,” Sam says. Dana’s eyes go wide, and she puts her hands over her mouth. Sam stares at her as Dana lets out a shocked, soft sound, and she stands, beginning to pace. “What? What is it?”

“One of the spirits that joined me didn’t want to go away,” Dana says. “It was strong, malevolent… Spirits like that, they don’t stay if you show no fear. They don’t see the point: they want to hurt people, to scare them. I didn’t fight it or anything, I just told it to leave… The bells hadn’t rung yet. It wasn’t dispelled.”

“What does that mean? The bells?” Dean asks.

“Church bells, they signal the end of the night – they’re meant to signal spirits to move on at the end of All Hallow’s Eve,” Sam explains: he’d researched for a long time, after Bobby’d mentioned a little bit, and Dana nods her head.

“Spirits like that, strong ones… If they’re invited into a home before the bells ring, they can claw onto this plane. They can stick around. But I didn’t think… Weren’t there just candles in his window?”

“He left out an apple,” Sam says quietly. “But when his mom found him the next morning, it had _CINDY_ written in it, carved into it. He didn’t have a knife or anything – we think it was the spirit. If it— if it carved her name into the apple, to get him to invite it in…” Dana shakes her head, sadly, and looks out of the window. “But that’s not the only case. If it started here, and then went to him… But there are other cases. These three kids were killed around a Ouija board. One of them was stabbed, one of their necks was snapped, and the third one had a quarter shoved through his eye. And this couple, they were having sex when they were set on _fire_ – their herbs caught alight, and they were melted. The only connection between these people is they’re doing vaguely occult stuff.”

“Wait,” Dean says. “Wait, wait… If it started here, went to Brady, went to that couple… Uh, Dana, uh—Ms Maxwell. Ma’am.”

“Dana is fine,” she says, seeming amused. Thank God she’s a lesbian, because Sam could _not_ deal with Dean trying to get with this girl right now.

“You noticed anything weird around the library recently? Flashing lights, cold spots...”

“It’s a public building, honey,” Dana says. “Of course I’ve noticed those things – and not just recently. If you’re asking if I’ve sensed a spirit…”

“Do you go down to the basement?” Crowley asks. Sam whips in his seat: Crowley is standing in the open doorway, a brown paper-wrapped bouquet in his arms that’s ridiculously fragrant. Sam notices barely a third of it is actual flowers. “You told me, some time ago, you keep antique books down in the basement, don’t you? The stuff you can’t display?” Understanding seems to spread across Dana’s face, and she gives a very slow nod of her head.

“Now, you kids have fun. Use protection!” Crowley winks, and with a soft _click_ , he disappears. Dana stares at the spot Crowley had occupied, and Sam wonders if they should explain.

Nah.

She’ll work it out.

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In the middle of the night, libraries should maybe be creepy, but somehow, they’re not.

Dean’s always found the presence of books kinda comforting – admittedly, he prefers dogged-eared paperbacks and cheap novels to read himself, but being surrounded by shelves and shelves of books always makes him feel kind of… at home. It makes him feel like he’s at Bobby’s, even in the dark.

“Down here,” Dana says, gesturing for them to follow her. In his hands, Dean’s EMF reader emits a steady, easy whistle, but when they reach the stairs that lead down into the basement, the EMF begins to pick up.

“Finally,” Dean murmurs, stroking the back of the old Walkman’s black casing affectionately. “You ready, Sammy?” Sam loads his shotgun with rock salt, and the both of them look to Dana.

“It’s a simple banishing ritual,” Dana says, mildly. “I don’t think you guys need this much weaponry.” In her hands, she holds a rounded bowl full of herbs made for cleansing and banishment, but it’s not what Dean tends to go in for himself.

He’s used to actually _ganking_ these guys. Burning them. Not just saying, “hey, dude, bye, hope to never see you again!” Stuffing his reader into his pocket, Dean cracks his knuckles and grins to himself, taking up the iron rod he’d had to rummage for nearly five minutes through the trunk for.  

“Let’s get busting.” He takes the stairs downstairs two at a time, and when he sees the basement, he stops short. It’s basically fucking empty. Where are all the creepy grimoires and tomes and shit, and maybe like, a glass case with bugs and stuff in it. “Dude, what the Hell?” Taking the EMF reader out of his pocket, he flicks it on, and immediately it screams with sound, but Dean can’t see a sign of anything.

“Dude,” Sam says. “Calm down.”

Sitting down cross-legged in the middle of the room, Dana flicks a match, setting the herbs in her bowl a light, and the smell of sage overpowers the rest of it, filling the room completely. “It is time that you move on,” Dana says, and of all things, she sounds fucking _polite_. What is with this chick? “Please, leave this place, and this plane.”

There’s loud, echoing laughter, but it seems to come from every side of the room, and Sam and Dean immediately go back-to-back, Dean wielding his stick of iron, Sam with his shotgun in his hands.

**“You think you can O R D E R me?”**

“That wasn’t an order. I humbly request—” There’s a sudden shift in the air like a whip crack, and Dana is thrown to the side of the room, her head smacking hard against the brick wall.

“What the Hell are you?” Dean demands, and a figure appears towards him: it’s hazy and grey, with spindly arms and legs, and it has a huge, gaping mouth. Dean swings for it, and it lets out a harsh screech, dissipating into smoke. Lightning seems to crackle in the air, and a sudden burn hits Dean across his leg – he has to jump suddenly to put out the fire clinging to the denim.

He hears Sam shoot, twice, but then a sudden scrape catches across Sam’s face, and although Dean can’t see the spirit itself, he can see the six claw marks that drag from his jaw to his nose – he’s lucky they miss his eye.

Dean keeps on swinging, but above them the lights are flickering and the bricks are letting out sharp, grinding sounds as they move against one another, as if the basement is about to fall the fuck in on them. Dean tries to keep on his feet, but he’s tripped up twice, thrown against one wall and then another.

“Cas!” he yells, looking up to the ceiling. “Cas! Kinda need you right now!” he calls with everything in him, trying to do whatever the fuck it is angels expect when you pray to them slash beg for them to save your ass, but nothing happens, _nothing_. Jesus, they really need to get Cas a fucking cellphone.

“Distract it!” Sam yells, and Dean does his best, doing the weirdest two-step with the thing – he doesn’t even listen to the shit that comes out of his mouth, the insults and the half-pieces of exorcisms and banishing rites, and he watches Sam fumble with his phone.

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Bobby gasps as Crowley pushes him down on the table, his hands roving none too gently over Bobby’s belly and his chest, and the bastard looks too damn _happy_ about all this for Bobby’s tastes. On Bobby’s favourite chair is a bottle of whiskey and the bouquet Crowley had collected him from God knows where, and this is a bad idea, this is three Hells of a bad idea, but look, Bobby’s been having bad ideas since the day he was born.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this,” Crowley murmurs, dragging his fingernails over Bobby’s belly, and he leans down, pressing kisses to the centre of Bobby’s sternum, moving lower down. He drags his mouth over Bobby like he’s tracing Bobby’s veins under the flesh, roving over the skin and exploring it, and Bobby… Bobby doesn’t mind.

“Oh yeah? And what’s so _desirable_ about me, huh?” Bobby asks, and it’s intended to be sarcastic, but Crowley’s clever hands are being pretty smart about unbuttoning Bobby’s belt, and Bobby wonders if he’s really going to let Crowley do this.

“Oh, my darling, you needn’t ask me such things,” Crowley murmurs into the left side of Bobby’s belly, and it _tickles_ , god damn it, and Bobby’s too old to be thrown backwards over tables and get _blown_ , but Jesus, it’s nice to pretend to be young. “Well, firstly, you’re a genius. Do you know that? You are. Then there’s that unflappable attitude of yours, that paternal bearing, that sass… Oh, and the poetry! You read poetry! You read Isherwood!” Pulling down Bobby’s jeans and letting his mouth hover over Bobby’s half-hard dick through his trousers, he says, “Robert, my love… You read _Blake_.” Bobby groans as Crowley mouths at him through his pants, and his breath is wet and hot, dragging right over Bobby, and God…

Jeeze, this is bad.

“And to think, all I needed to buy your affections was a bouquet!”

“Stop talking before I change my mind,” Bobby growls, and Crowley shivers.

“Ooh, it gives me _special_ feelings when you threaten me, Robert.” Bobby feels himself grin, a little savagely, and he’s about to reply when—

Oh, dang it.

“ _No!”_ Crowley groans, burying his face in Bobby’s crotch and clutching at his knees. “Don’t, Bobby, don’t answer it—” Bobby already has his phone halfway to his ear.

“Hello?” he says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, but then he sits up so straight, so suddenly, that Crowley loses his grip and stumbles onto the floor. “Shit, you okay?”

“Oh, _fuck off!”_ Crowley snaps, and Bobby sniggers.

“What’s that, Sam? Whaddya mean, it’s not bound to anything? Can’t ya— Aw, _shit_.” Bobby looks at Crowley, who’s sat on the floor in his expensive suit, _sulking_. “Look, gimme a _minute_ , and I’m gonna sort you out, okay, kid? No, it doesn’t matter how – just stay alive for a minute, and you’re gonna be fine. Okay. Bye.”

He snaps his phone closed, and looks down at Crowley.

“I wanna make a deal,” Bobby says.

“Now? I’m _busy_.”

“You ain’t gonna get busier unless you take the deal, you little shit.” Crowley scowls at him. Scowls at him, and then he stands up to face Bobby properly.

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Later, as Dean sleeps off a headache in the back of the Impala, Sam runs the image through his mind again and again and again. Crowley appearing, ruffled at the edges with mussed hair and bruised lips, and _ripping_ the spirit right out of the air.

Sam’s never seen anything like it in his life, never seen something ripped so solidly to pieces – and the fucking screams the thing made out as it was burned by the fragment by Hellfire, _shit_.

And the way Crowley had roared at the both of them…

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean groans. Sam watches them in the mirror. Dean blearily looks at Cas, and Castiel says, “You summoned me.”

“It’s a little fucking late, smartass,” Dean grumbles, and he punches Castiel in the shoulder. Castiel looks down at Dean’s hand, apparently confused by the show of violence, and Sam rolls his eyes. “You know Crowley’s fucking Bobby? You’re a piece of shit!” Castiel stares at Dean, squints his eyes slightly, and then meets Sam’s gaze in the mirror.

“I don’t know why he’s blaming you… But I’m gonna blame you too,” Sam says. Castiel’s brow furrows.

“Where are we going?” Castiel asks.

“Bobby’s,” Sam answers. Cas wisely chooses to say nothing more, and when Dean readjusts himself to lean his head against Cas’ square, uncomfortable-looking shoulder, his lip twitches, and Castiel almost smiles.

Sam sighs: these days, everyone’s gay except Sam.

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Downstairs, Crowley hears the door open, but he remains sprawled in bed, naked of everything but his meatsuit. “You gotta get up.”

“Ah ah. I made a _deal_ , I believe,” Crowley murmurs. “I save your boys, and for the next two days, I get to do what I want.”

“I meant to _me_ , you shmuck,” Bobby says. “I didn’t mean _in general_.”

“Mmm, for now, I wish to support you,” Crowley murmurs. He puts his left hand on Bobby’s knee, looking up at him with his brown eyes wide and full of feigned emotion. “I’m going to support you from right here.” Bobby smacks him, and Crowley giggles.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get dressed, I suppose.”

“And you’re gonna tell me the whole damned story – and if those boys don’t corroborate…”

“What’re you going to do? _Spank_ me?” Bobby turns to look at him, and the grin on his face makes Crowley all _gooey_ inside.

“Will it convince you if I do?”

“I’m going to get dressed now,” Crowley says, primly, and makes a mental list of all the things he wants Bobby Singer to do to him. 

He makes a note to check on Dana at some time today – he might feel awful, were he really capable of such a thing. She’ll be fine, he’s sure, as Dana’s rather a strong lass, but still…

Perhaps he ought bring her to meet Bobby. He imagines the two of them would get on.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks so much for reading! So just some references;  
> 1\. Robert Lamm is one of the founding members of Chicago!  
> 2\. Joe Bouchard was the original bassist for Blue Oyster Cult.  
> 3\. "gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide" is a quote from the excellent novel "Good Omens", by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, though the quote is actually about Aziraphale, and not Crowley.
> 
> Hey, hope you enjoyed that! Check [this link](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/160853818533/request-commission-information) out if you’re interested in making a request. I love requests, so please feel free to send them in! Commissions are open, and I do have a tip jar too, if you're interested.


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